


Through the Night

by CoffeeAndTin



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Delirium, Fevers, Gen, Geralt Whump, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier is more help than he gives himself credit for, Seizures, also posted to tumblr, unbetad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:40:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26408119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeAndTin/pseuds/CoffeeAndTin
Summary: Geralt is injured on a hunt and Jaskier takes care of him.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 92





	Through the Night

**Author's Note:**

> There are probably a million of these sorts of stories but here's one more!

Jaskier sat in their little camp and plucked at his lute’s strings. The tune was flippant, atonal nonsense but Jaskier stopped and started again as though he’d made a mistake.

 _This is taking too long,_ he thought as the sun slipped below the horizon.

He nudged away the familiar pang that came with being unable to do anything in these situations. He continued to strum, and imagined the thing Geralt was hunting -a creature that was feline and reptilian in grace and appearance. It was difficult not to find inspiration in that horror, though. His fingers sussed out a new rhythm. He looked into the fire and wondered if the creature's eyes were similar in color, how Similar to Geralt’s.

Jaskier stopped abruptly when the brush to his left rustled. He gripped the neck of the lute tightly and jumped.

“You’re back,” Jaskier said as he huffed out self-deprecating laughter, but gave a smile that insisted he knew it was Geralt all along. “You really-”

Something was wrong. The fact Jaskier had heard Geralt approach was testament to that fact. Geralt’s steps were slow. His right hand held his ichor-slicked silver sword, and he kept his left arm across his abdomen. Jaskier couldn’t see the blood very well against the dark fabric of Geralt’s tunic, but he could see that the hand covering the wound was stained crimson.

Jaskier set his lute down, stood and walked closer without bothering to brush the dirt from his clothes. In the pale evening light, Jaskier could see the sheen of sweat covering Geralt’s face. In the back of his mind, Jaskier wondered where Geralt’s armor was.

“Hey,” he said as he reached out to take the sword, or help in some way. He wasn’t really sure.

“Leave it,” Geralt growled as he slumped against a tree. He winced and swallowed hard.

Jaskier would not be so easily rebuffed. He let Geralt take a couple of breaths before walking over and taking a soft hold of Geralt’s forearm with one hand, and the sword’s pommel with the other.

“Is it dead?”

“Hmm,” Geralt said by way of confirmation.

“Then let go,” Jaskier said. It was not a request. He supposed it might have been an imitation of Geralt. Jaskier squeezed his forearm lightly. Geralt, for his part, looked at Jaskier with annoyed resignation as he uncurled his fingers and let Jaskier relieve him of his weapon.

Without taking his eyes off of Geralt, Jaskier carried the sword and placed it by Geralt’s things. He opened his mouth to lament Roach’s absence when Geralt heaved himself away from the tree trunk and tried to walk. One step, then another that faltered. Jaskier closed the distance between them and caught Geralt under the arms before gravity could claim him. It must have pulled the wound; Geralt gave an abrupt, pained grunt.

“Sorry,” Jaskier said as he helped Geralt right himself.

He nudged his way under Geralt’s left arm and was surprised by the heat Geralt’s body was putting off.

“You’re so warm.”

Geralt leaned more heavily on Jaskier, but said nothing.

“Come on,” Jaskier said as he took as he took a step.

Geralt’s movements shadowed Jaskier’s as they made their way to Geralt’s bedroll. The going was slow and with each step, Geralt leaned more heavily on Jaskier. They paused when they reached the bedroll. Jaskier struggled for something to say. Expressions of concern were jumbled with glib proclamations about how heavy Geralt was. He settled on silence and focused on settling Geralt. Jaskier’s knees threatened to buckle, and he felt the strain in his back, but he didn’t let go until Geralt was on the ground.

Jaskier huffed out a breath and smiled at how close he’d come to toppling. His smile was short lived, though. Jaskier had expected Geralt to begin rummaging through his pack and begin the process of making himself well. But Geralt sat there, jaw clenched, with his hand still holding his side.

“You’re hurt,” Jaskier said.

His words didn’t spur Geralt into action, but it did earn him a half hearted scowl.

“I'm allowed to indulge in stating the obvious every once in a while,” he said. “What do you need?”

“Thirsty,” Geralt said.

Jaskier was used to Geralt answering with sounds, gestures, or monosyllabic words, but his voice was quieter than it should have been; he sounded so worn. Jaskier located Geralt’s water and handed it to him. Geralt drank from the skin with the urgency of someone who had been stranded in a desert. Geralt’s breathing escalated with the effort, and Jaskier watched with both worry and morbid fascination as some of the water ran down Geralt’s chin and onto his chest. Geralt exhaled harshly when he was done. He let the water skin fall from his hand, then scrubbed a broad palm over his face and winced.

The longer Geralt took to make a move for his pack, the more nervous Jaskier became. He couldn’t see the extent of the wound on Geralt’s side, but that seemed like as good a time as any to mention it.

“We should get that cleaned,” Jaskier said. Geralt made no move for his things. He just sat there, staring forward with his jaws clenched, sweat on his face beading anew. “Do you need a potion, or-”

“No.” Geralt’s voice was flat and impatient, but not angry enough to dissuade Jaskier from pressing the issue.

“What can I do?”

“There’s nothing you can do,” Geralt said as he looked up at Jaskier. Jaskier guessed he was trying to glare, but Geralt looked too tired to muster any real menace. Jaskier frowned, but quickly marshalled his expression.

“If I were an insecure person, I might think that remark was about my value as a travelling companion.”

“The venom,” Geralt said as he bowed his head and moved it from side to side as though he were hoping to clear his vision. “There’s no potion. Nothing.”

Jaskier thought of the people the creature had already killed; their ends hadn’t been pretty. Icy fear crept into his gut.

“You just intend to curl up and die then? What if...”

Jaskier’s impassioned speech about not giving up fell short. He looked at Geralt. He looked miserable and ill, but not afraid. But then, Geralt couldn't usually be relied upon to display his emotions in a way that would allow Jaskier to gauge the desperation of the situation.

Geralt sighed and looked up at Jaskier with a flash of aggravation.

“It’s fatal to humans,” Geralt said.

 _Not to witchers,_ Jaskier thought, unable to miss the subtext of Geralt’s statement.

Geralt licked his lips and swallowed hard before slowly enumerating all the ways he was about to suffer. It hurt Jaskier to hear the frankness with which Geralt discussed the inevitability of his own agony. It was far from the first time Jaskier wondered how much pain Geralt had withstood in his past to make this seem acceptable.

Geralt moved his hand from his side. He put both of his palms on the ground and lowered himself down; he shook as he did so. He rested on his uninjured side and wrapped his arms around himself. Jaskier walked over and knelt down next to Geralt and put a hand on his arm.

“Don’t,” Geralt said as his muscles bunched. “Leave me. I told you I’ll be fine.”

“Yeah,” Jaskier said. “You did.”

He didn’t like how Geralt’s voice seemed to come from miles away, or the way he was trembling. But he removed his hand and stood. The sky had darkened; it called to attention how low the fire was burning. That thought gave Jaskier direction. He got some of the wood he’d gathered earlier and added it to the fire. The kindling popped, hissed and shifted in the flame.

He cast a glance back at Geralt before making his way to the nearby stream for water. He rushed back, but everything was as he’d left it. Geralt’s chest moved with short, quick breaths and the deep furrows in his brow informed Jaskier Geralt’s sleep was not a restful one. There was no comfort he could offer his friend in that moment, but he sang one of his own ballads to himself as he found a pan, then filled it with water and put it over the fire. He willed the water to boil as inactivity grated on him. He considered picking up his lute, or cleaning the sword. Anything but the impotence of waiting.

Jaskier shifted his weight from foot to foot, then made a noise in the back of his throat before getting a blanket from his own belongings. He brought it over to where Geralt lay, and folded it. He sank down behind Geralt. With gentle hands, Jaskier lifted Geralt’s head and put the blanket beneath it. Jaskier felt how damp Geralt’s hair was, and a concerned tut escaped his mouth. He moved a hand to Geralt’s forehead, then his cheek.

 _Too warm,_ Jaskier thought. _Far too warm._

Geralt’s eyes slid open when Jaskier moved his hand to his throat, but he did nothing to prevent Jaskier from helping. “

You’ve got a fever,” Jaskier told him as he focused on the way Geralt’s pulse jumped under his touch. Was it too fast for a witcher?

Jaskier was unsure if the heat radiating off of Geralt’s body, or his lack of response was more worrying. Geralt’s eyes seemed to look right through him. Jaskier was disabused of any notion of pressing Geralt for a way to help him when Geralt’s body seized up and began to shake.

“Nonononono,” Jaskier said. Geralt had told him this would happen, but he wasn’t ready for it.

He didn’t want to see the way Geralt shook; he didn’t want to see the way Geralt’s eyes rolled back in his head. He put a hand on Geralt’s arm and another on his hip, if for no other reason than to let Geralt know he was there. He knew the gesture was useless, but maybe, maybe, it would keep Geralt from shaking himself apart.

“Okay, you’re going to be okay,” Jaskier said. His voice was barely above a whisper. “You said so yourself.”

Geralt’s back remained straight as his limbs and head shook and spasmed with malignant force. The stuttering, uneven hiss of Geralt’s breath being dragged in and out of his noise was the only sound Geralt made. Jaskier wanted to tear through Geralt’s pack and search out a potion, but he knew that would have been absolute idiocy. He knew whatever he selected would, in his hands, likely do more harm than good.

 _Pleasepleasepleaseplease_ , Jaskier prayed to whichever deity might have been listening. _Please let this stop!_

It did stop.

Eventually.

The shaking tapered off. Geralt breathed hard, but his body went slack. He let out a strangled noise, likely the remnant of words that had snared in his throat. Jaskier moved his hands away, though he doubted Geralt noticed their presence in the first place.

A hissing sound drew Jaskier’s attention; the forgotten water was boiling. He leapt up and took it away from the flame and set it aside to let it cool, but his attention returned to Geralt, who was reigning in his breathing. Jaskier walked in front of Geralt where he crouched and cleared his throat. It was so discreet a noise that Jaskier barely heard it himself.

“Are you with me, Geralt?”

Geralt breathed out, in, then out again before giving a little nod. His eyes remained closed.

“Okay,” Jaskier whispered; relief had muted the volume of his voice.

He rose and found his way to his pack. He brought it over to where Geralt was and began rooting through it. He kept odds and ends on hand, little just-in-case things that he thought he would have needed before Geralt ever did. He found the poultices easily enough; he supposed he could have found them by scent alone. A priestess of Miletele had given them to him; he remembered the crinkle in her nose when she’d admonished him about their pungence.

Jaskier moved Geralt’s arm and pulled his tunic up. It came away easily enough; the fabric had barely begun to stick in the blood. He breathed a sigh of relief when he revealed the wounds. His mind had conjured images of spilt viscera and gushing blood. The wounds, undoubtedly inflicted by one of the creature’s claws, were ugly but they were nowhere near as bad as Jaskier had feared. The blood seeped lazily. Jaskier thought that staunching it should be relatively simple. But the skin around the wounds piqued his concern; it was raised and red.

 _Poison,_ Jaskier thought.

Or perhaps it was venom. He chose not to dwell on the distinction. He drew a pained groan from Geralt when he put pressure on the wound. Jaskier mouthed the word ‘Sorry,’ but he didn’t relent. Geralt did what he always did. He tolerated the pain; aside from the occasional tensing of muscle or grunt, he made no complaint as Jaskier worked in silence. He did his best to mimic the priestess’s ministrations. When he was done, he chewed his lip and hoped his limited experience as a healer was adequate. At least there was no more blood and Geralt’s breathing seemed to be more even. Jaskier pulled Geralt’s tunic back down and wished his friend a restful sleep, all while knowing unconsciousness wouldn't find him until Geralt returned to himself.

The night seemed in no hurry to pass. Jaskier shifted from one position to the other, trying to escape the aches in his legs, back and neck. The period of time the relief for his muscles lasted was shorter each time he moved. The fire’s warmth was no comfort to him, especially considering how comparable it was to Geralt’s body heat. Jaskier had no reason to believe their problems would fade with the sunrise, but that didn’t stop him wishing it.

Darkness remained. Geralt groaned and curled in on himself. Jaskier feared another seizure, but while Geralt’s body tensed and trembled, Jaskier realized another symptom Geralt had mentioned was presenting itself. Geralt shifted as he made strangled, pained cries, and Jaskier sat with a desolate kind of uselessness as cramps wracked Geralt’s body.

 _Nothing you can do,_ Jaskier thought as he rubbed circles on Geralt’s back and intermittently wiped the sweat from his brow.

Geralt raised a hand. Jaskier watched as it stayed where Geralt had lifted it; several fingers were tightly curled as he trembled with the force of his muscle spasms. Jaskier reached out his own hands and wrapped them around Geralt’s before he guided it back down to his chest. Jaskier moved his thumbs back and forth over Geralt’s hand.

He sounded inane in his own ears as he hushed Geralt and tried to comfort him through the pain.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said as he dashed the idea of running for help when it resurfaced.

Geralt said he would get through this and Jaskier had to trust in that. He bit his lip as Geralt’s hand threatened to crush his. He quelled the urge to attempt to wriggle free. Even if Geralt ground his knuckles into dust.

Geralt’s cries crackled with agony, but they tapered off into muffled, breathy sounds, but those too faded into silence as his body stopped warring with itself. Geralt’s muscles eased and his hand went slack in Jaskier’s. When Geralt’s body unwound, Jaskier patted his hand and set it down before nursing his own and sitting back with a long exhalation. Beneath the light breeze and the occasional snap of an ember there was the occasional hitch in Geralt’s breath. No matter how things seemed, Jaskier didn’t allow himself to sink into the calm, relative quiet.

He sat and watched the thankfully steady motion of Geralt’s shoulder as it rose and fell. Jaskier counted as Geralt breathed, one on inhalations and two on exhalations as though it might make time go faster. A thought flitted into Jaskier’s mind. What if the sun didn’t rise? He nearly chuckled at the thought, but it continued to rattle around in his head. Darkness eternal? It was poetic. It could be the subject of a song. There were no words for that song, not yet, but it would begin with a plodding one-two, one-two tune.

But the rhythm became a staccato riot that was accompanied by murmuring. Jaskier had no wish to wake Geralt, even when those murmurs shaped themselves into names. Some Jaskier recognized, some he didn’t.

“I’m here,” Jaskier whispered.

The desperation in Geralt’s voice made him sound so lost and unlike himself. This part would not make it into his song.

Geralt made an ugly, uncertain noise as he rolled onto his back; his mouth hung open as he gasped for air. His eyes, unseeing and ablaze with disquietude, searched the camp.

“No,” Geralt rasped as the corners of his mouth tugged downward and he rolled back over onto his other side, facing Jaskier. He tried to push himself up on shaking arms.

Jaskier knew better than to try to reason with him. He put firm hands on Geralt, who tried to scuttle away. It took hatefully little force to keep Geralt still and his arms, unable to hold his weight, tremored before giving out. It hurt Jaskier to feel the extent that Geralt’s power had fled him. Geralt panted and raved as he struggled weakly against Jaskier, who alternated between apologizing, begging Geralt to be calm and offering him comfort. All told, it did not take long for Geralt’s energy to deplete itself. He stared at nothing as he settled.

“Ma?” Geralt called out again.

“Shh,” Jaskier hushed him as he shook his head.

He brushed silver strands from Geralt’s brow, hoping to show him the gentleness his life so often lacked. Jaskier willed Geralt to close his eyes, to find rest.

Geralt was quiet, save for the occasional, insensible whimper. Those sounds stopped too, though and Geralt lay there with his eyes half-lidded. Jaskier wondered what specters were haunting Geralt and if the venom’s repertoire of tortures had exhausted itself yet. He dabbed the sweat away from Geralt’s brow again. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his thighs. He savored the feeling of the muscles in his back stretching. His own heart rate slowed and, despite his best efforts, he felt his eyes begin to droop.

“Huhuh,” he admonished himself as he drew in a deep breath and shook his head. He began to hum while he put another log on the fire. As the flame grew, Jaskier’s humming bloomed into a melody. It was only when he began to mouth the words that he realized it was some half remembered song from his youth, something he’d sung with glee before having had any concern for skill or method.

Geralt’s eyes slipped shut and Jaskier could see that his body had, at last, had enough; his muscles relaxed and his breath evened out.

Jaskier yawned and started singing another song he hadn’t given voice to since childhood. After a verse of that song he came to the realization that, at that moment, there would have been nothing better than to hear Geralt grumble at him to shut up.

He sipped water when his throat and mouth became too dry and he smiled lopsidedly for no reason at all. His eyes burned and when he rubbed them he found tears, though he could not recall when they’d fallen.

When the sky began to lighten, Jaskier was unconvinced that he wasn't imagining it, but when the brightness became tangibly gray, his sleep-deprived mind became giddy. He knew the light would not guarantee Geralt would be well, but the dissipation of the darkness was something.


End file.
